My Boy Builds Coffins
by Minato's Moustache
Summary: A coffin builder's son and a girl about to be put in one run into each other on the street one day, literally. So begins a romance that neither of them could quite comprehend and an outcome that no one expected.
1. Chapter 1

**I was reading Daughters of Darkness and I found out that Quinn is **_**self conscious about his height. **_**I will have a field trip with this. **

**Name: My Boy Builds Coffins. **

**Summary: A coffin builder's son and a girl about to be put in one run into each other on the street one day, literally. So begins a romance that neither of them could quite comprehend and an outcome that no one expected. **

**Notes: James/Poppy needs more love! Also, have some AU Headcanon: If there's a cafe or a diner in my work, Jez will always work there, and Morgead will always own it. **

**Listening to: Florence and The Machine, obviously. **

**This story actually has little Ash, which is incredibly surprising for me, being an Ash fangirl and all; it's also going to be **_**kinda **_**long. **

* * *

><p>The coffee shop was his home away from home, a small cafe in the bowels of London occupied by regulars and locals solely. Which is why the stranger that walked through the door with the <em>chime <em>and the "One hot chocolate, please," was such a surprise to everyone. James sunk lower into his booth seat and ran his ink pen along the paper of his notebook, leaving thin black streaks that the paper quickly absorbed.

The best stories begin with red wine and James' story started seventeen years ago with a shared bottle of wine and drunken kisses, so it had to be great and his life had to mean _something. _

James first ran into her outside the cafe James now resided within, literally, and he'd helped her pick up her scattered notes and papers before they both went their separate ways silently, two shy teenagers too scared to say anything.

That night, upon returning to the flat his parents never seemed to enter, he realized that he had a folder containing her evaluation and opinions on some incomprehensible Italian artist: _Domenico Ghirlandaio_, apparently. Alongside this were her own sketches and watercolour paintings. It was around the same time that James' realized his favourite notebook, a leather cover beauty his father had given him stocked full of schematics and, of all things, poetry, was gone.

So what did he do? Luckily, her name was written at the top of the first page neatly: Poppy North. He dragged out his laptop and loaded up facebook, finding her in no time and feeling vaguely lecherous and stalker-like.

It turns out she was a student at the local college, liked shortbread and was facebook married to James' second cousin Jez.

Funny, isn't it? How small the world is when you have a laptop and connections.

It also turns out that she _desperately _needed that folder, having put it on her status – people need to privatize, seriously.

James, being the gentlemen he is, hunted down _message _– Timeline was goddamn confusing – and sent her a polite message saying that he was the man she crashed into, and he had her folder, thank you.

So there he was, cramped into the corner with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands, his second favourite notepad, and her folder against his hip. It was purple and had flowers on it.

There she was, in the seat opposite him with hot chocolate and his leather, elastic band bound overflowing notebook. There was a thin blush on her cheeks and her eyes were downturned, James' reckoned she was 15, 16?

"James," he blurted out at the same time she said quietly, "Poppy."

He smirked, and she went bright red. James was attractive, sure, but in an aloof, monochrome way, his smile still managed to start stopped hearts and warm cold fingertips, though.

"Your notebook," she slid it across the table, "Coffins?"

"This boy builds coffins," he said not-so-jokingly as he handed her the folder. James wondered if it'd be appropriate to ask her about her sketches, how she managed to breathe such life into them. It turns out he didn't get the chance because almost a second after he gave her the folder, she grabbed her back and stood up, apologizing and saying goodbye.

She was almost at the door when James leapt up and said, "wait!"

She paused, hand on the handle, and turned around, her back pressed to the door. The coffee shop lapsed into momentary silence, before people began to talk again, slower and more wary.

James walked over.

"Can I get your number or something?" he asked hesitantly. _WhatamIdoingwhatamIdoing? _

"S-sure."

She produced a pen and scribbled a number on his arm, leaning in.

"Your poetry is beautiful, by the way, James Rasmussen."

Then she was gone in a haze of pixie dust and cheap _Charlie _perfume body spray. A flicker of a smile appeared on James' face, gone in a second, then he looked down at his arm.

_O7123456 _and then a little x and a winky face.

James.

Felt.

So.

_Rejected. _

* * *

><p><em>This room is my new prison. <em>

_A harmless shade of blue,_

_This room was once her prison,_

_And now it's mine too. _

_This room has forever been my prison,_

_With the typingclickingcreaking and the guttural groans,_

_Night contaminates day,_

_I am always alone._

_I am not allowed to typewritebreath, _

_The degenerates will seize,_

_my fingers and type,_

_Words of venom and malice,_

_As they very well please._

_This room is my prison. _

(This room is my prison – James Rasmussen. Notes: I decided to get into the mind of a young girl trapped within her own mind, I think it worked out well, _non?_)

* * *

><p>They met a few times after that, James' work path – a part time job at the cafe purely for pleasure reasons – took him directly by the community college and every lunch without fail she sat at the gates and slowly ate her sandwich whilst sketching whatever caught her eye. But in reality, James and herself never talked much at all.<p>

She looked down at her lap one day to find the outline of a man walking away had been dreamily sketched, it was just an outline, but she knew who it was. She crumpled it up and shoved it in her pocket. When she opened her folder next lesson to hunt down the test sketches to show the children she was teaching – she took certain professors lessons as extra credit when she wasn't at the uni – she found a post-it note.

"_Beautiful." _

She crumpled that up, too.

A little over a month after James found himself in awe of the life Poppy North breathed into her artwork, they met again, properly this time although it wasn't planned in the slightest.

"James, James!"

James lifted his head from the table a fraction to see a set of ever shifting eyes, they were violet at that moment.

"What?"

"Wanna come to an art show with us?"

Us, of course, being Morgead and Jez – the owners of the table he was planted on – plus Ash, his girlfriend Mary-Lynnette and whatever other straggler was dragging their self along.

"Art?"

"You know, paintin's, sculptures, the likes." Ash waved his hand, "you're dressed decently, right?"

Ash was wearing a wood stain stained pair of skinnies, a plain white button up shirt, and a zip up hoodie. Jez slammed looped a tie around his neck, coaxing him from the table so she could tie it as Morgead closed all the blinds and Mary-Lynnette set up the alarm system. Then, before he knew it, James was being lead down the street in mid august, attempting to retie the tie that Jez messed up so thoroughly and attempting to swallow his qualms over what a mess they all looked.

He didn't even stop to wonder why they were going to an art screening – they really weren't the types, spur of the moment, James supposed – or how he was going to get back into his apartment tonight in the dark – he climbed the fire escape so as to avoid a few grabby neighbours and a stalker or two – or any of those over things that were worrying him.

Partially because he was cold, but mainly because _Poppy was an artist _and _it's a small estate what if she's there _and _what will I say _and _I didn't condition my hair before I went out today oh god. _

"James~" Jez sung, flicking his ear, "we're here."

They were offering wine at the door, which the five teenagers gladly accepted, nodding and saying _thanks man _in turn to the disturbed looking door man.

Mary-Lynnette immediately started talking to an artist, whilst Ash nodded and made bullshit remarks that no one really believed. Jez, Morgead and James stood looking quite awkwardly around. James could hear Jez and Morgead whispering to each other.

Oh, figures, they were here to steal free food, no wonder Jez has her bag.

So James set off wandering around on his own, removing his hoodie and putting it on a coat rack and fixing his hair so he looked half decent. Nothing particularly caught his eye, he nodded to a few people, accepted another glass of wine, and _stopped._

"It's beautiful," he whispered, wine momentarily forgotten in favour of staring, gobsmacked at the art piece in front of him. It was clear what it was, a short elven girl lounging on a picnic blanket in a small clearing, her arms were stretched out above her, revealing a splattering of freckles on her chest, a slender neck, protruding collar bones.

"It's pretty, isn't it," someone said quietly next to him, and he nearly leapt out of his skin when he sighted her, "You never called me, James Rasmussen."

"You didn't give me a real number, Poppy North. Is this yours?"

"No, actually, I'm not egotistical enough to paint myself. It was inspired by me, though, apparently."

"Who painted it?" The painting was unlabeled.

"He couldn't be here tonight."

They lapsed into silence, a comfortable, un awkward one, funnily enough as they both admired the piece in front of them.

"If I were to ask for your number again, would you give me your real one this time?"

"I don't know, it depends."

Silence once more.

"It's a shame I'm not naked, isn't it, James Rasmussen?"

James spat out his wine, luckily into his hand, he began to choke as Poppy laughed at his reaction. When he composed himself, he turned to her, bright red, "what ever do you mean?"

"In the painting," there was a slight smile, "Calm down, Jamie, I was kiddin'."

James wasn't sure he wanted her number anymore, even if she was adorable to the extent where he could ignore her use of his much hated nickname.

"You know, we should get coffee some time. Every time I open my books I find pages from your notebook." She smiled.

_Was she seriously? _

There was a loud crash and James turned around to see that Ash and Mary-Lynnette's efforts in distracting the guards and patrons had stopped working, and they were all being forced to run for it.

"James!" Jez shrieked, "We've got to go!"

"But..."

"I'm your ride home!"

That was true. James turned to Poppy.

"Want to come?" He asked, "I could take you up on your offer of coffee."

"I live on the other side of town."

"I can give you a lift, and, hey, free coffee."

Jez was grabbing his hoodie and him, trying to tug him over to the door whilst guards chased Morgead to the car that Ash was desperately trying to start. James was too caught up in how smooth he was being to really care.

"JAMES." She shrieked.

"Yeah, sure," Poppy said, slipping her hand into his, "I'd love to talk to you about the post it notes you left me."

"Later, now's the time to run."

And they sprinted.

That's how James and Poppy first formally met, not quite sure if it was the wine that led them into such confidence, and not quite caring. They didn't know where it would lead them, crashing into each other on the street, literally falling into the other's arms.

* * *

><p><em>My boy builds coffins, with hammers and nails,<em>

_He doesn't build ships; he has no use for sails,_

_He doesn't make table, dressers, or chairs, _

_He can't carve whistles, 'cause he just doesn't care. _

* * *

><p><strong>I can't believe I let James take credit for my terrible poetry. It's through the eyes of a girl called Adelaide trapped in her mind, represented as a room. I hope all the chapters will be this long, Fanfiction is such good practice, man. <strong>

**Obviously inspired by Florence and The Machines 'My Boy Builds Coffins.' **

**I love her too much. **hearts****

**Review, please? Regardless, I plan on finishing this. **

**Also, next chapter, it might actually, you know, have coffins being built. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Boom, chapter two! **

**Name: Air Conditioned Love. **

**Summary: And the love progresses, Poppy's personality is **_**revealed. **_**(she's not an axe murderer, I promise.) **

**Listening to: The songs this was written to will go at the end. **

**Notes: My AU writing is all in the same universe, except JYROTMC (that wouldn't match up with what's going to happen in Divine Intervention after all.) So therefore, if Rashel and Quinn are lying about, expect cameo banter. Adorkable – intentional. Also, that moment when my AN took up half a page on word. ;_; **

**Word telling me colour is spelt color again. Fucking what. HOW EVEN. America, that's not even, fucking-. SKfkhkrgjkfdhj.i **

* * *

><p><em>I am a savage besmitten with her,<em>

_The loneliest werewolf, I wander the earth, _

_My words are mistakes, my thoughts are unclean, _

_The cider inside me, it slides like a dream. _

_Air Conditioned Love – Ludo_

* * *

><p>They didn't get back to James' apartment, instead, they got to the bus station. It was cold, three in the morning and they were mainly fuelled by the wine they'd bought in a small store – the five of them had wandered in there looking for the brand they were using it the art gallery – and the fact they sprinted to get to the station before the last bus went. The others were gone and it was just Poppy and James.<p>

They keyed each other's numbers into the other's phone and Poppy kissed James quickly and the cheek before leaping onto the bus and disappearing out of his life for all of three days when James' called her and asked her on a date, albeit incredibly nervously. They went on an incredibly awkward trip to the park and had an incredibly awkward picnic that became _adorkable_ when he pinned her down and drew cat whiskers on her face using whipped cream. Then they spent five hours back at aforementioned cafe – "_Let's call it Cake Baby." "Jez, we're not in a chick flick, we're calling it The Stand." "Morgead, we're not in Hetalia fanfiction. How about just 'Le Cafe'" "How about 'I'm a hipster,' does that sound nice, Jez?" "Okay fine, The Stand." _– talking about everything from the outlandish price of art supplies to their musical tastes and the great Tea vs Coffee debate which went nowhere.

When James woke up one morning to find himself asleep on an uncomfortable sofa with Poppy on top of him, he smiled, turning off the television and interrupting it's colour bars, breathing in her scent of rain and vanilla, then lying back and pretending to sleep until she awoke.

"I haven't woken up with a boy still here in a long while." She muttered sleepily. _Not even a "Good morning, James." _

"Well, it is my flat." James chuckled before realizing the posters on the wall weren't his and downstairs the television was blaring. The CD stack next to him on the coffee table was composed of world music – something James hadn't touched since he was 17 – and bands like Athlete and Radiohead and Bluetones - stuff James hadn't touched _ever. _

Poppy clambered off of him, stretching – the muscles in her back contorted _beautifully_. Then she pulled her jeans up slightly higher and padded off downstairs.

James blinked slowly and couldn't help but be scared by the progression of their friendship.

Yes.

Just a friendship.

James saw the world in black and white, monochrome, bland, lifeless. He was too colourblind to care or to cease his bitchings.

"Radiohead, generic? Jamie, you're living a lifeless life."

_Department of redundancy department. _

His world burst into colour.

"_Please_," he sunk into the sofa in her living room, a lazy smile on his face, "how can you even say that they have any originality whatsoever?"

"She's right, _Jamie._" Poppy's overly enthusiastic roommate said with a smirk, "Radiohead are _clearly _tootop notch for _you._"

If overly enthusiastic meant sarcastic hipster pagan, then, yeah, she was overly enthusiastic. Poppy said she changed since she met her boyfriend, the illusive man, Gabriel, or something. Cut most of her hair off and faced her demons for a boy that no one had ever met. But from what James heard from poppy (she caught rare sightings of him and had a conversation with him one night when Gillian was unconscious) he was practically _angelic. _

James' phone buzzed. 'Home' the message read, nothing more. It was from someone on his phone called Mutter. So it was his mother.

He stood, grabbing his bag, "Sorry, I have to go home. Mum's freaking."

Gillian looked ready to cry from laughing at how whipped he was. Poppy, however, understood, his father probably needed a favour – the measurements on something, blueprints, a cup of tea – and so James had to go and observe, hust as he had often since the age of seven.

"_One day, son, you're gonna be building coffins just like yer old man." _

His dad, even after moving to London and marrying his mother, had never quite lost his accent, his sarcastic mocking way of saying "_Lawndawn," _and _"Saaaaaaauuufff._" Whenever he was talking about here he lived.

James' never really wanted to make coffins, but he knew it'd make his dad proud, and one day, when he was 19, on the cusp of manhood having left his family home, gotten a flat, and applying for universities, shot up out of bed, smashed his head into a lamp, and realized that in reality, he liked making coffins with his dad, the design was fun, it paid well, and he _didn't even have to go to university. _

So there he was.

As it happened, his father was dead.

"We could get someone else to make his coffin," his mother said quietly, her cold hand gripping James' in a death grip that was sending his fingers as numb as the rest of his body, "I mean, if you want, I know it must-" her breath hitched, for all the abuse his father gave her, he loved her and she loved him – "it must be hard."

"No, I'll do it. He would've wanted that."

_My boy builds coffins, for better or worse,_

_Some say it's a blessing, some say it's a curse, _

_He fits them together, in sunshine or rain, _

_Each one is unique, no two are the same._

"You can't just invite a girl to a funeral on a date, James. That's _creepy _to say the least."

"It's not a date," James felt himself blush in the dim, filtered light of the cafe, "and my parents like Poppy, so it'll be cool."

"They met her _once. _Christ, this collar is stiff, is it meant to be this stiff?"

"Once is enough. Also, you're taking Mare."

The cafe was closed for all but James and Ash. Jez and Morgead were setting out buffette on the bar, like is tradition.

"White or red?" Jez asked, waving a hand at the wine bottles whilst Ash glared at the offending collar.

"We're engaged, James, it's different."

"White." James answered Jez, ignoring Ash's last comment. It was bad enough all his friends were settling down and being happy but Ash getting engaged really clued him into his how alone he was personally. He didn't even make him best man, some guy living in Spain called Quinn that he went to school with, the flighty type that travelled a lot to hide his feelings of emptiness.

How numb he was to his fathers death was disturbing himself. All he could think was _I have to actually make coffins now. _

Oh, and _I wonder if a funeral is a weird date, maybe that's why i'm sort-of single. _

Sort of because, according to everyone, Poppy and James were practically married.

* * *

><p><em>Lo, mortal soldier, I was your Queen of Hearts,<em>

_I struggle to understand why you had to depart, _

_The moths have eaten away at the fabric of my dress, _

_I am incapable of that thing they call rest,_

_For the kingdom is wilting without a king, _

_The birds on the trees no longer sing, _

_Their carcasses are rotting behind my closed blinds, _

_Without you, what is the point in this kingdom of my mind? _

(Kingdom Of My Mind – James Rasmussen. Notes: I swear, I write poetry like a girl after one too many glasses of wine and All Choked Up has infected my brain.)

* * *

><p>Two years after they first met, Poppy and James were in his flat listening to records. Funnily enough, that isn't an innuendo, they were just listening to the first Greenday album on vinyl (an incredibly good album, James' will tell you, much to Poppy's distaste) and drinking tea – James was too cheap for good coffee. Poppy was on her second cup, James on his fifth, the dregs of all the others scattered around.<p>

The television was playing Coronation Street. It breaked for the news and Poppy tsked, reaching for the remote. In doing so she leant over her tea and spilt it all over James' pants.

He gasped at the heat, leaping up and attempting to peel off his jeans, but they were sticking like _fuck and is my phone getting wet? Oh my god I just got my contract renewed. _

Poppy was caught between panicking and blushing at her best friend removing his pants in front of her. She ran to the kitchen and began filling a bowl with cold water. She then sprinted back into the living room, slipping on the tea on the floor and into James, who was doing a weird dance and pouring an old cup of tea – cooler tea – upon his leg.

They fell backwards onto the sofa.

"Is your leg okay?"

"Y-yeah, it's fine now."

Poppy began to push herself off of him, but stopped when she saw how he was looking at her.

"Poppy." He said at the same time as she said, "James."

It was so reminiscent of the first time they met that they couldn't help but crack up laughing. Poppy collapsed back on top of him, staring upwards at his chin.

"Shouldn't you be building?"

"Recession's on."

"So less people are dying?"

"Apparently so."

The silence suddenly became incredibly awkward as their looks towards the other deepened.

_Oh fuck it. _

James hoisted her up and pressed his lips against her.

When they pulled away after what felt like a millennium later, James was terrified of her reaction, _what if she didn't like it? What if she doesn't like me? _

"Finally," she chuckled, kissing him again, around his lips she said, "I thought you'd never."

"I- I." He began, before she cut him off again.

They spent all night listening to records, and this time it is an innuendo, maybe.

Two months later Jez sat laughing at James' excitement over Poppy moving in with him.

* * *

><p><em>I'm the mortal soldier, you're Queen of Hearts,<em>

_All I want is to show you how you're nothing like all of them tell you, _

_To be more than just a cricket on your shoulder,_

_Just a little bit closer. _

_All Choked Up – Say Anything_

* * *

><p><strong>ACCIDENTILY JUST REALIZED WHAT ALL CHOKED UP IS ABOUT. IT'S ABOUT A GUYS UNREQUIETED LOVE FOR HIS BEST FRIEND. ALL THIS UNINTENTIONAL FORESHADOWING. OH MY FUCK. <strong>

**Apparently, though, his love wasn't unrequited. ;_; **

Inspired by and written to:

Air Conditioned Love – Ludo

I Love You More Than I Hate My Period – Say Anything

My Boy Builds Coffins – Florence and The Machine

Hello, My Name Is Your TV – Ludo

All Choked Up - Say Anything

Foreshadowing – Adele and The Gimptones

Depressing Breakup Songs – Depressing Breakup Bands


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter = really long. ;_; **

**Gonna post this and go sleep forever. Chapter one: Vague Fluff. Chapter Two: Vague Fluff. Chapter Three: HEARTBREAKING ANGST and fluff, **_**you have been warned. **_

**Drittes Kapital! Tret'ye Glava! Chaibidil Tri****ú! Chapter three, comrades. **

**Listening to: Chopin – Valentina Igoshina Waltz in D flat major. **

* * *

><p><em>I don't love you for your graveyard eyes,<em>

_I don't love you for your shapen thighs, _

_I just love you for the beat-beat-beat-beating,_

_I don't love you for your tattoo tie,_

_I don't love you and I don't know why, _

_I just love you for that beat-beat-beat-beating. _

_Safety Pin Stuck In My Heart – Patrik Fitz' _

* * *

><p>Sometime between carving the coffin of Dove Redfern and the still glass in front of him, it had gradually begun to change. James woke up in the evening to hear Poppy's ritualistic smashing of the cheap porcelain cups and plates against the kitchen sink. He was pulling his tie on for work when he realized that the sound was indeed her breaking their stuff and ran into save his favourite coffee cup before she got it.<p>

Once every few months with no prior explanation to her actions, she destroyed all the cups and plates before buying new ones – cheaper and tackier every time – out of the holiday fund, they'd wanted to visit Quinn in Poland(1), having become his friend, but it seems that wasn't going to happen.

James came to expect the smashing, it had long ceased to worry him (at least before she got into the mug cupboard) it was comforting, almost.

With every piercing shattering of porcelain, the colour-blind spot on his left eye grew bigger.

Three months onwards, he leant exactly why she was doing this.

The rain pattered against the window, streaking down to the sill where it waited to ambush innocent – or not so innocent – passer-bys. Music was drifting slowly through the room; time was resisting the heavy notes of Young Savage. He could barely hear the phone over the sound of his music until it clicked and he yanked the phone from it's cradle.

The majority of their problems were probably caused by James and his vicious, savage jealous that he barely kept in check. Alternatively, it was-

"Good afternoon," the person on the phone said softly.

""Hullo." James padded over to his stereo and unplugged it with his toe, effectively cutting off Ludo mid rant, he then sat back down.

"Is Mrs Rasmussen home?"

James loved that.

"Ah, no, I'm her husband, though."

He wasn't her husband, but it was easier to go by his name and just pretend, no one really asked questions any way. Realizing the stone tone of voice the women held, a feeling of worry began to set up camp in James' stomach. He stood once more and made his was to the fire escape with Ash following close behind– honestly, the man couldn't leave him alone for ten minutes.

"I assume you know the current situation, Mr Rasmussen?"

_With what, the NHS? _

Regardless, James nodded. Then, realizing the woman couldn't see him, he confirmed verbally. He sat down on a step, and Ash sat next to him, pressed into his side and listening.

"Mr Rasmussen, I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, but the results of you're wife's test came back."

_What test? _

"And it's positive."

_Oh god she's not pregnant is sh-_

"Your wife has lung cancer."

James froze, literally his entire body went cold and he couldn't move an inch. There was a long pause; he could hear the lady on the phone going _Mr Rasmussen? Are you okay? _

"What?" He eventually said slowly.

"The reason for your wife's chest pains and breathing problems amongst the other problems is a tumour, I'm really sorry, Mr Rasmussen."

"Poppy doesn't have any chest pains o-or any of those things, who are you?"

"It's Mrs Perkins from the clinic."

James fell silent once more, "this isn't fucking funny, you know."

"I'm not joking; it's not the kind of thing you'd joke about. Did you even know your wife was being tested?"

He shook his head, and didn't bother verbally replying.

"Is she going to die?" he asked so quietly it was practically inaudible. James looked across to Ash who had a look of shock and pain on his face, a look of denial and-

"Anywhere between six months and six weeks."

James barely listened as the stranger talked in soothing tones about unsoothing things. _Retiamal, _and _inhibitors, _and _chemotherapy, advanced, paraplat, enhancing the time left, tumour, _soothing tone for horrible, frightening explanations.

"If you could bring Poppy down so we can run a few things by and see what's best, that would be helpful, I believe." She finished.

James nodded, mentally kicked himself back into existence, confirmed and hung up.

Alternatively, the reasons for their problems were their ignorance to the other's suffering.

But now it seemed so obvious why she smashed all the plates, when Poppy is in pain, she gets blindingly angry, smashing-boyfriend-with-a-vase angry. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the ridge in his skull from where she had done that, a scabbing sure to scar creature, and he sighed, put his head in his hands, and shook out his emotion and panic whilst Ash quietly left to go back to his fiancé and leave James to sob on a fire step, the cold dripping into his bones and the rain soaking his clothes.

There are a lot of times in his life that James had been scared, but nothing quite compared to this.

He told her through a post it note next to her breakfast, along with the words '_I need time. I love you, Poppet.' _

Then he left, unable to cope with seeing her break down and die like his aunt had, he was positive she was viciously murdered spiritually as well as physically.

James loved Poppy for her life, her beating heart, her laugh and her smile and the skip in her step, the way she'd always apologize and cry and then laugh after breaking all of their stuff, her bad jokes and her sharp sarcasm.

He couldn't love a corpse.

His left eye was entirely colour blind, and no one wanted coffins any more. James couldn't even dedicate ten years of his life to building a time machine, because it wouldn't help.

Since she found the note, Poppy folded and picked at it enough times that it fell apart in her jean pocket. She wasn't unhappy to see the P.S on the note go, the rest she cried for.

'_Don't follow me, North.'_

It would've killed anyone else holding the weight of two losses at once, giving up seemed easily, it was desirable and _she didn't need him she could die alone. _

"Coffee, please, Jez."

"Are you sure you should be-"

"I'm not pregnant, just dying," Poppy snapped one afternoon and realized she desperately needed James to keep her mental instability in check, to give her life and make her smile.

Alas, he left without a word. Without a single fucking tone or word and syllable. She would find him and give him what for.

But she was so _tired. _

Six months to six weeks had gone down to five on both accounts.

* * *

><p><strong>Part two, yay! This story is mutating from a short angsty romantic fic to something more. I suppose that's good, but I don't want it to lose its effect. It mainly went this way because James couldn't cope and disappeared, leaving both Poppy and I like, "what the fuck, Jamie?" <strong>

_This addictions not sweet no more,_

_It's pleasant smiles become a vicious sore,_

_It's getting worse, this burning thirst,_

_Love won't ever lust. _

_Winter is Coming – Temposhark._

* * *

><p>Darkness.<p>

"James, you can't keep doing this."

"I can do what I want." He brought his head up from the glaring white pillow to reveal Jez, crouched down and eye to eye with him. In her hand she held a glass of water; the other held half a baguette filled with tuna, mayonnaise, slices of cucumber and sliced tomatoes, leaking red juice and infecting the creamy looking tuna.

"James, I'd be fine with it, I understand what you're going through, but it's not fair on Poppy – she fucking needs you, James. Also, you're invading Morgead's personal space."

James' eyes turned upwards to where Morgead was crammed into the corner. A single bed was no place for two grown men, after all, and James had a habit of cuddling close.

On the plus side, Morgead's mother – "Call me Debbie, Jamie, lad." – was really nice whenever she was around. As nice as a woman that sells herself can be, if not slightly crude. She also made the best bacon butty's James had ever tasted, and he finally understood why Morgead opened a cafe – he was damn good at cooking.

Morgead's room was the smallest room in the council house, a two bedroom masquerading at a three because, in reality, you couldn't swing a cat in the room Morgead occupied. By occupied, I of course mean he slept there occasionally, got his mum to do his washing and when Jez and he fought he hid there, listening to records and smoking.

They eventually named the Cafe, simply, Cafe Anglais, an inside joke shared by no one but Jez, who had actually read about Paris at one point.

"James, just please try the baguette, you'll feel better if you eat something."

He paused for a long while before saying, "No, 'hate tomatoes."

"Fuck," Jez exclaimed, "I give up! Morgead, we have to do stock." She snapped the rest in one big exasperated breath before dumping the half baguette unceremoniously on James' face and storming from the room. A couple of seconds later, the front door rattled with the force of it's shutting.

Morgead sighed, climbing over James. "Don't touch my PS2," he fished his jeans off from the floor – blue and black stripes sounded nice that day – and retrieved his keys from on top of the TV, "it's fragile."

Then he disappeared, slam, they were gone and James was alone in the cramped house, silent once more.

The first thing James did was turn the PS2 on and load up his _Bully _save file from when they were 14.

It felt like _so long ago. _

The second thing he did was get dressed, walk out of the door, determined to go get his things and talk to Poppy, and then... he turned right back round and went back inside, playing Persona 3 until he got what felt like carpal tunnel. He stayed like that until Morgead finally kicked him out and he ended up at his mother's house, hollow, tired and spending all his money silently paying rent, tax and recourses bills on the flat for Poppy.

That night he went to the scrap yard and hunted down a ton of spare timber, he took it home and began to build a makeshift coffin, practice for when he actually had to make hers, she'd like flowers engraved on it, she was the type.

_He made one for himself, one for me two, and one of these days, he's gonna make one for you. _

He told himself he'd go back next week and talk to her.

A week later he got his job at 'Anglais back, but he didn't go back to her.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh <strong>_**oh god.**_** Part three. This is the last part, I fucking swear, and anyway, this part is just a drabble, really. I'm so tired now, it took me four days to write this bitch. **

* * *

><p><em>My boy builds coffins, and I think it's a shame, <em>

_That when each one's been made, he can't see it again, _

_He crafts every one with love and with care,_

_Then it's thrown in the ground: it just isn't fair. _

* * *

><p>The room stank of fresh paint and rain with the soft undertone of vanilla, but tat was from her hair. James had imagined this moment for an incredibly long time; the night after their first time sharing a bed, sober and non-platonically. He had imagined that he would slowly open his eyes and see her coppery curls silhouetted by the golden light streaming through the windows. They'd be tangled in the sheets, barely clothes and loose. He'd brush her fringe from her face and kiss the outer corner of her eyes in turn, then her lips, awakening her gently. Then, they'd kiss once more, drawing it out with languish as their bodies curled into each othe-<p>

James' eyes shot open as her knew japed into his inner thigh. Poppy was an inch away from his face, fringe pinned back to reveal green eyes wide open and framed by heavy red marks.

"I'm never sleeping in the same bed as you ever again. You snore like a pig _and _hog the covers _and _death grip my waist so I can't even escape to the loo or the sofa to actually get sleep. I _really _need the toilet, you inconsiderate _bastard._"

"Good morning to you too," then what she said clicked, "I don't snore!" he exclaimed, letting go of her long enough for her to clamber over him and run to the bathroom, leaving a hand sized bruise on his face.

"You really need to see a doctor on that."

His knife cut clean through his toast in surprise. James scowled, scooping the jammed mess onto a plate using his knife and settling down in front of the portable in the small kitchen to watch GMTV.

"About the snoring."

Jam splattered on his Cafe Anglais work shirt, he was regretting trying to make new toast.

"It's ridiculous."

James attempted to ignore her as he changed his shirt and began to collect his things.

"I'll book an appointment!"

"I have work."

"Tomorrow?"

"Work tonight, all night, and tomorrow."

"Stop having two jobs!"

He didn't have work that night, but doctors sucked and _he didn't snore._

"_I'll cut off your nose if I have too, Rasmussen!" _She exclaimed out of the window as he unchained his bike.

"Don't mind her," he said to a disgruntled dog walker that happened to be making his way up to his flat, "she's just insane." The man didn't look happy to have unstable teenagers living in his block, but beggars can't be choosers.

Poppy was insane, though, couldn't be helped, too insane and too bouncy.

James hoped she never changed.

James stared down at the glass in front of him once more, it was surrounded by others on the tray he had collected from his table at Cafe Anglais, having begun work there again safe in the thought that Poppy wouldn't come any more, and she hadn't, at first.

The door chimed, and his heart stopped.

* * *

><p><strong>When I was writing "You couldn't swing a cat" because of my handwriting it looked like car, not cat, and I laughed so hard.<strong>

**A little thing about the DIU (The universe this is set in) Compact Disks didn't really come about as a form of transporting music. Therefore, when I say "they listened to records" or "he flipped the tape" they are actually listening to records and tapes. There, an explanation that covers for my habits in writing. Orz. That also explains the complete lack of Quinn and Rashel in this fic: DIU stands for Divine Intervention Universe. Next chapter be ready for intimate paragraphs about Jez's Cafe Anglais. **

**Heads up! I'm starting a new story soon! Set in the Cafe and focusing on a memory-less Jez working there and being reasonably happy, that is until old friends show up dragging up dirt and her entire life is turned on its head. **

**See you next chapter. **


End file.
